


sweet harmony

by oonaseckar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26426464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Harry's a teacher in a London school.  He may be looking for romance, but a homeless busker isn't quite what he had in mind.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Harry has been through a divorce that has wiped him out financially as well as emotionally. He has signed up for teacher training, as a new life, a fresh start. Now he's a middle-aged noob, professionally speaking, with no S.O. And he meets someone. Eggsy: an Eggsy who's detached from his family, a homeless wanderer, with some musical training.

As a new teacher in a London school, it isn't rush hour when Harry gets off work for the day and heads for home. It's just after the last wave of kids streaming out of the schools, in fact, and just before the first round of office workers, so it could be a lot worse, when he hits the tube at Euston station, and hops on the first train to his cramped little flat. It's not packed out like it could be, like it is at real rush-hour. He's standing, but it's not squashed up like sardines, he isn't getting more familiar with any sections of anyone's anatomy than he really wants to. He could even sit down, there's a couple of spaces, if he felt like navigating the forest of feet and mounds of bags and copies of the Metro in the way, but it's not that long a journey and he can't be arsed, frankly. He just leans up against a pole and closes his eyes, because phew, _long day._ Long fucking day, and crazy kids, and it's not like he's really even done for the day. There's still marking, and emailing assignments out, and prepping for the next few days. But at least he can get half an hour in front of the telly first, and a cup of tea. God. He's so _tired_. Being a new teacher, he's not sure exactly what it's cracked up to be, but whatever it is, it's not _that_.

He thinks at first he's imagining it, a few notes that sound out quietly and then evaporate out of the air, a little wisp of melody that's come and gone. When he opens his eyes, to check, there's nothing there. But the girl in front of him –- smartly dressed, suited and booted –- is looking over to the other corner of the gangway, doors to both sides of them, as the carriage rattles on through the darkness. And it's enough to make Harry jump a little, when he finds a bright pair of hazel eyes looking directly his way, when he looks over himself in that direction.

They belong to a slight, fairish-haired guy, early twenties probably. Not precisely handsome, but with a nice face that looks like it smiles a lot, and easily. He's a bit scruffy –- a worn and marked-up red t-shirt that's worn and battered enough that maybe he works on a building site or something, and his jeans and boots have seen better days too. Harry doesn't know enough to judge whether the same applies to the violin on his shoulder: he doesn't know a damn thing about such things, isn't musical one bit, has never been into classical or jazz or early medieval plainsong or what have you. But at least he's traced the source of the lingering musical phrase, and he also isn't imagining things due to the stress of trying to inculcate the basics of algebra into the fifth form of clueless and unprepared chimps who are signed up for the GCSE.


	2. Chapter 2

And as their eyes meet, the guy smiles wider, and says, over about three people lounging around between them, “Looked like you needed an alarm call!” He wiggles his fiddle where it rests on his shoulder, a little. His bow rests easy in his other hand, where he's leaning on the pole cat-a-corner from Harry. (He has nice hands. What, Harry is observant about these things, so what.)

“Thanks,” Harry says, a little bit shyly. “Wouldn't want to miss my stop!” He's rather conscious that their interchange is being witnessed, or overheard, by everyone around them. The smart little shiny-haired woman, at least, is taking covert little glances at the pair of them, back and forth and pretending she's _completely_ absorbed in her phone. Which she is _not_.

But the cute scruffy musician-guy doesn't seem inhibited or discouraged by it, at all. In fact he lifts his bow again, with one eyebrow lifted at Harry, and says, “See, so much better than a regular alarm.” And he plays a little snatch of music again. It's nothing that Harry recognizes, but then you couldn't describe him as musically adept, by any stretch, no. It's lovely, though: and certainly nothing that justifies the loud groan from behind him. It comes from the seated section, and –- without making too much of a meal of it –- Harry discreetly turns his head, to see who _isn't_ happy about a musical soundtrack, to brighten up a stressful journey.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't do more than glimpse, before looking innocently away and blinking a bit. Very 'who, me?' But it's a fat middle-aged guy, in a horrid tan leather blouson jacket and cream chinos, with an aggressive recent haircut. And a hostile glare, that he's intermittently directing at the music-man who's been having a bit of fun. Not enough to suggest that he's going to punch anyone out for daring to own a musical instrument, play a musical instrument, or perhaps even have a smile on their faces. Just enough to suggest that he's liable to _comment_ about it, loudly, pugnaciously, ungraciously and with some frequency.

And he does, too. “Bloody hell. Isn't it enough that there's buskers every bloody corner when you get out of here, and the tunnels as well, and the bloody escalators half the time?" he says, loud. Although nobody _asked_ him. "There was one on the concourse yesterday, they didn't even clear him out all morning!” He's grizzling free-form now, looking around the carriage for someone, anyone, to agree with him. (Or disagree with him, or _tut_ a bit in a soothing way, or catch his eye. It's not going to happen. Everyone's very carefully not catching his eye: at least, the ones who are paying one blind bit of attention are carefully not catching his eye. The rest are playing games on their phones, or reading, or chatting to their mates about the game on Saturday or what they're streaming tonight.) “Now we've got music on the bloody _trains_ ," he whines. "You don't need it! Who needs it!”

And Harry grits his teeth, because he's going to laugh, if he's not (bloody) careful. “Yeah, _music_ ,” he agrees, carefully looking off in the other direction, and talking in a low voice that the asshole can pretend not to hear if he wants. “Who needs it?” It's not that he's _really_ looking for a smack in the mouth. But it's worth the risk, for the sweetness of the smile, that's a little more than a smile after all. It skims him up and down, gives him a rather thorough and comprehensive once-over, and is enough to make Harry feel a little bashful. Or at least, as if he'd like to know whether this construction worker–cum-musician likes what he sees.

But it seems like he's never going to get an answer to that. The train begins to slow down, making ready to pull into the next station. And then they're there, knots and gaggles of tired-faced commuters appearing on the platform as the train rumbles past and slows, slows, slows... stops.


	4. Chapter 4

The scruffy musician, it appears to be his stop. He disappears, along with a miniature horde of fellow-travellers that he gets knotted up with. Along with his muddy boots and his violin, and, well, goodbye...

Probably the last time that Harry will ever lay eyes on him, as well as the first. Barring if he checks out the personals for those _'I spotted you, mysteriously attractive stranger_ '-type sections. Harry thinks that he gets a glimpse of the guy looking back, at the moment that he steps off the carriage and disappears into a heaving mass of rush-hour humanity. Looking back at _Harry_ , of course, or at least in his direction, which is why Harry bothers to take the time to register it. But it's a split second, and he could be wrong. And anyway, then it's over, and it doesn't matter, not either way.

To be honest, Harry thinks about the guy for another two minutes –- he was rather intriguing, what with the _workwear and violin_ combo –- and then he's done. He moves on, mentally, to issues of marking schemes, and whether to have the frozen fish for supper or splash out on a takeaway.

And the next time is _real_ rush-hour, damn it. Not because it's the time of day when offices set free their hunched and wan little hostages, not because banks and factories and retail outlets are disbursing their needy exhausted human capital. No. Because it's _holiday shopping season,_ and every hour is rush-hour, even on this early-evening Saturday.

The carriage Harry's already on, heading home after a gift-buying trip that's left him weighed down with parcels and gift bags and rolls of gift wrapping –- he has packages sticking out from his person at _every angle_ , which is not going to make him popular with his fellow-travellers, what with taking up considerable extra space, and digging into people at delicate points –- isn't all that packed out, though. Perhaps because it's the last carriage on the train, perhaps because people have finally reached the point of gift-buying fatigue... Most likely because a couple of the inhabitants of the carriage appear to be homeless, and at least one of them also looks likely to be hearing voices. What with answering them at some considerable volume out loud, and in a conversation apparently regarding the vigorous and startling sex-life enjoyed by his dead mother.


	5. Chapter 5

But it isn't enough to put Harry off, not with all the lovely extra space and seats to spread out in, dumping his bags on the seat next to him. It actually affords him enough space and relaxation to get his phone out, and have a nice quiet game of patience. It stills his brain from last-minute panics, over whether he's given the kids the right reading list for next term's exams over the holiday period, and if the present for Aunt Liz will hit the spot, or if she'll take offence again like last year. (How is a gift of a 'bananagrams' word game supposed to imply that she's _enormously fat_ and needs to diet, anyhow? The mention of fruit?)

Such winding down and gentle cogitation is probably how the music takes him unawares, the first note soothing its way into his brain with a delicious initial melody and irregular rhythm. Perhaps he was nodding a bit, on the verge of sleep. It wakes him up in the nicest way, though. And as he turns around, looking for where it's coming from, who has their phone speaker turned up, then he has a little flash of memory, and a brief wondering about the _possibility_. An image of the scruffy young busker guy flashes through his brain –- scruffy, grimy, attractive in his proley workman way, and artsy too. It's an image that hits a lot of Harry's favoured kinks, if he's honest.

He doesn't actually genuinely expect it to be the same guy, because hey, this is _London_ , city of... well, several million people. He's lost count. Except that it _is_ , of course, even if Harry doesn't immediately recognise him. Mostly because the chap's not dressed in steel toe-cap building-site boots, and a workman's dayglo gear, and frankly he looks a little rough around the corners. Not in the same way as the last time that Harry saw him, at all. That was just the wear and tear of an honest day's work, the same as you'd expect from anyone with a hard physical job. The kind of thing that washes off in the shower, with a bit of a tune-up in the bathroom with hair-gel and toothpaste, bodyspray and aftershave. And the violin had added that eccentric, bohemian touch that rendered the look romantic and charming, a macho Renaissance-man air that prodded Harry with a little twinge of attraction.

Today, though, a month -– is it six weeks, perhaps? -- on, and this young man looks... a bit disreputable, frankly. He's wearing a big greatcoat, that is huge to start with and doesn't fit the guy's lithe slim frame. Though it's in decent condition, the size makes it look more like he's wearing a sack. It's almost unmistakably a charity-shop number, well out of date. And the same goes for the yellow shirt under it, although the jeans it's paired with are modern enough. Just a bit worn, and frankly they don't look too clean. As his eyes skim over the guy's lower half he registers that actually, the _boots_ are still the same, but they look odd with this get-up. Perhaps the fellow simply has nothing else to wear instead.


	6. the future hasn't happened yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Toshikazu Kawaguchi's masterfully brilliant 'Before The Coffee Gets Cold'. What a fine, fine writer, what a prince!

It's _quite wrong_ , because the fellow is _young_ and _cute_ and he should be dressing to _accentuate_ that. But instead, he's dressing like a broke, and really badly put-together, old man. Maybe Harry's thoughts show in his expression, too, because as his eyes swing up to scan over the chap's face, he realises that his cheeks have definitely pinkened a bit. Harry's made him blush, and it makes Harry himself deeply uncomfortable. But not so uncomfortable that he doesn't notice that the violin's making a second appearance, at least. It's held laxly in the fellow's dropped hands, like he's given up the effort to make music, or to brighten up the holiday season for tired and irritable travellers and revellers. Or to get Harry's attention, perhaps, but now he _has_ it.

Harry visibly noticing the instrument seems to make a difference, at any rate. The young man grins at him, and lifts it to his chin again, and he's _away_. Away and playing, and oh, _God_ , what terrible doom has Harry brought upon himself and his fellow-passengers? Because it's not a question of going back to the pretty fragment of melody that actually caught his attention to begin with, oh _no_. Instead, this sly, _evil_ youngster is now taking his inspiration from the holiday season itself –- and has launched into this year's biggest novelty Christmas hit. It's taken over the airwaves, it's taken over the internet, and now it's taken over Harry's train carriage. God _help_ him. He pulls an awful, suffering face at the chap, who only laughs. Laughs quite mercilessly, and doesn't stop, just carries on playing with even more gusto. Harry isn't sure about how his fellow travellers are responding to the musical onslaught –- considering that they're fairly sparse to begin with, and of uncertain mental status (in some cases) into the bargain.


	7. give your heart to everyone you meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Ethan Hawke. What a great, beautiful, undying first novel The Hottest State was, I gotta story about that book...

But he gets _some_ indication, when the train pulls up at the next station –- when the young man has switched over into an even more raucous, sentimental and cliched holiday-season anthem of yesteryear. Because one of the more down-at-heel and eccentric looking chaps near the back –- in fact, the one who's been conducting one-sided conversations with shopkeepers and aliens, right the way through –- seizes the chance that the carriage becoming temporarily immobile offers him. He doesn't disembark, no. No, instead he _gets up_ and scurries through the carriage –- past Harry, and even more hurriedly past the musician who's appointed himself voluntary social entertainment director –- and slams through the doors, into the next carriage.

It's a bit pointed, really. Especially the way that the old geezer mutters, “Christ almighty whatta _racket_ , should've stayed on Venus for the orchestra 'stead of this cat howlin'...” just at the point where he's passing the violinist. Harry makes earnest attempts not to laugh. But he just can't keep a completely straight face, and nor can anyone else in the carriage. The scruffy violinist gives him a reproving look, but doesn't look a bit really offended. And Harry's tempted –- well, the idea runs through his head, to pat the seat on the other side of him. Like a silent invitation, for that young bloke to come over so that they can get better acquainted. And he'd probably give in to the impulse, except that the doors of the carriage squeak and whoosh open. There's an incoming festive horde of shoppers, invading this little box on rails, in a strip-lit tiled tunnel.

Yeah, up until now the carriage has been all but deserted. But either the packed state of the other carriages has rendered travellers desperate enough to try the one where the afflicted and the indigent hang out, or it's simply _that_ time. The time when everyone's all shopped out, and there's a massive exodus from the main commercial areas. People just saying _damn it, I've bought everything that I'm going to buy now_ , and heading for home no matter what. The seats fill up as fast as water poured into an empty vessel. Even the seats either side of Harry's are included in that. He has to shift bulky and misshapen bags onto his knees, to pull his jacket around his shoulders from where it was sprawled on the next seat, to squeeze and contract out of the way where he was comfortably sprawled.


	8. Chapter 8

And when he's done making himself as scrunched-in and innocuous as possible, for fear of digging elbows and parcels into one of the buxom ladies to either side, and he's pretty sure that he's not going to lose hold of any purchases and have them fall and bust on the manky unmopped floor of the carriage, then he looks up and around. Casually, or it's supposed to look casual, but it's not really as casual as all that. He's checking to see if the musician guy has moved, or got off, really. He freely admits it, to himself at least. The music has stopped, you see. And even though it was dreadful –- the choices, not the execution which was superlative –- he misses it. (All right, then, he misses the musician. He finds the chap... interesting.)

The carriage is suddenly packed to the gills, heaving, now, as it rumbles and trundles off into the dark mouth of the Tube tunnel. But Harry manages to spot the young man who's sparked his interest. No, he hasn't got off the train to continue his journey elsewhere. He's still here. Although he's squashed slightly further into the opposite corner of the standing section than he was a couple of minutes ago, when the place was practically empty.

It seems that he's already looking Harry's way, though. His eye catches on Harry's, as soon as Harry looks in his direction. And there's a slight glance away, a faint shyness: but then he looks back and smiles. And he resumes his song. Rather carefully, because the carriage is crowded now. It's a more precarious matter, to lift one's elbows and begin bowing away at a fiddle. He manages it, though, with a bit of assistance from the middle-aged ladies around him. They look quite excited, at the prospect of a bit of light entertainment. It might take their mind off their _feet_ , and how they've suffered from tramping around every shopping emporium in a five-mile radius.


	9. Chapter 9

Perhaps Harry should have been careful what he wished for, after all. Because yes, it means a resumption of the Christmas-hits soundtrack he was suffering through only minutes ago. (Every one of them packed with _Santa_ and _bells_ and _reindeer_ and the rest of the festive paraphernalia, more than you would have thought could possibly be packed into a single song.) But somehow it seems worth it, rather than the guy disappearing off into the depths of the London Underground again. And Harry, never to get another glimpse of his really very nice, sort of bumpy and gentle face, his slightly wonky nose that looks like it met a fist it didn't like at some point, his sweet absorbed expression as he plays. (And Harry hadn't realised just how much he'd taken in and absorbed about the fellow, how much detail he'd been noticing without being quite aware of it.) 

Anyhow Harry finds he doesn't mind it that much. Or maybe it's that the chap is choosing the more tuneful, more soothing, less abrasively _merry and packed with tinsel_ options, out of the grand old tradition of cheap and tacky Christmas songs. And it's amazing how he does pack it in. But he even manages to run through half a dozen, and then finish up with a couple of truly soothing and worshipful Christmas carols, that ease the nerves and the auditory canals, after all the jingling dreck.

It could go one of two ways, Harry thinks, with a trace of misgiving. He could have a rapturous music-video response, plaudits and bouquets thrown –- okay, metaphorical bouquets –- and a cheering adoring crowd egging him on. Or, alternatively, he might be surrounded by hooting disapproval and mob ire, getting eggs thrown in his face and bundled out of the carriage. (Hopefully metaphorical eggs, also. _Real_ eggs would be bad.)


	10. Chapter 10

But luckily, it is Christmas, after all. It seems that people haven't run out of the Christmas spirit, just because their feet hurt, and they didn't manage to find an appropriate present for _Uncle Arthur and his Westie terrier._ The violinist bloke actually does get the rapturous reception that's the better option, out of the possibilities that Harry's uneasily musing about, or at least a close approximation of it. The middle-aged ladies _love_ it, cooing and swooning over him from a slight respectful distance. (Although a couple have a distinct cougar-type glint in their eyes, and half of their murmured comments to each other seem to be as much about the musician's eyes and arse, as about his undeniable musical talent. Harry has excellent hearing.) A bunch of school-age lads who are squashed up at the other end of the carriage sing along, and are a lot more tuneful and serious about it than Harry would have expected. Altogether, perhaps the carriage doesn't erupt in appreciative thunderous applause, but it's still a warm and gracious response, and an extra glow related to the general Christmas warmth. It's a hopeful and uplifting end to a strenuous day.

And the carols that the fiddle-player finishes with are _Silent Night_ , and _O Little Town of Bethlehem._ Well, he's finished as far as Harry is concerned, anyhow: because it's Harry's stop, coming up. He's very regretful about it, to a degree that's a bit silly, really.

The nice young chap has certainly caught his eye, and his fancy. If they weren't in a packed Christmas tube carriage, if Harry were a little bit bolder or even a little bit drunk... Or, frankly, if he could even get his hands free and had a bit of paper and pen to put his phone number down on, then maybe... None of those things apply. And anyway, they're not in a pub or a club, and it would be a bit presuming, and... too many people. Those are his excuses, plus the fact that he's nearest the other door, and when the train stops, that's where the flow of people is going.


	11. Chapter 11

He lets it carry him away from the lure of the music, regretfully. (And laden down with bags and packages, and really that's quite enough to be thinking about.) But he does allow himself one slightly wistful look back into the carriage, after his musical fancy. There's a warm buzz of good feeling and chat, but the music's ceased for the moment. Perhaps one of the cougars is busy trying to chat her way into fiddle-boy's pants. At any rate, there are too many people coming after him, and too much fuss and noise to make out, to see anything. He can't get a glimpse, not one, and he can't keep loitering and goggling backwards.

He steps out into the tunnel, and navigates stairs and escalators to the main entrance of the station. He's ready to step out into the cold night, crisp and prickling-fresh with Christmas cold-snap. But he stands for just one moment, buggering up and obstructing, a little, the entrance, in front of the ticket machines. And there's a hand at his arm.

“Would you like one last song? Before you go?”

Bloody _hell_ , it makes him jump. And at the same time, he realises that he really _is_ obstructing the entrance badly, and someone's going to yell at him soon. He's getting evil-eye dark looks from the entering knots and groups of people, as they snake around him, as it is. So he pulls in the side, to lean against a defunct ticket machine with an OUT OF ORDER sign on it. Because the other thing, the thing that he realised in the same moment he realised he was standing dead centre of the doorway, is that the chap talking to him at his elbow is the _musician_ chap, off the train.

Who has _followed_ him out into his home station, and the concourse here. No, that's _stupid_ , Harry corrects himself immediately. (And a little conceited.) He's got off at the same stop, that's all. Obviously. Harry tries to focus on the fellow's actual words, although it's a little difficult when he's this close. (Fairly close: really up close when he spoke, but he's taken a step back now, and looks a little bashful. Also a little adorable, what with the slightly crooked nose, and the wide blue eyes and hesitant smile. There's a little gap between his front teeth, the kind that anyone with an ounce of vanity –- or a valid credit card –- would get fixed, and rather regrettably. It's definitely cute.


	12. Chapter 12

The guy holds up his violin, and raises one nicely-arched eyebrow. _One last song?_ Harry thinks, and he opens his mouth, to say _that's nice but I'm in a bit of a hurry_ , or something along those lines. Because he's really terrible at being picked up. Or at being press-ganged into listening to buskers, and offering charitable donations, if _that's_ what's going on. He isn't really sure which it is. But it's a moot point. Because, after all, he surprises himself when he opens his mouth. “ _There's_ an offer,” he says, and smiles. Fuck it, it's Christmas. If he can't take a chance and get into the whole brotherly-love spirit, the vibe of Joyeux Noel at this time of year, then when can he? “Why not?”

“Why not indeed?” agrees the fiddler, grinning. And he leans back against the busted ticket machine, where Harry's stepped away from it. And he lifts up fiddle and bow to launch into, yes, a Christmas song. Is anything else allowed, once into December? But one of the lesser-known, more romantic ones, that harp a lot on missing loved ones at this time of year, and memories of that _certain special individual._ He doesn't look full on at Harry, as he plays. He just casts him the odd shy little glance. Which, if you ask Harry, is a lot more flirtatious than anything bolder, and a lot more effective.

And he doesn't throw down a cap or cloth or box or anything, nothing for people to donate money in, which is a little confusing. Probably for other people walking past, too. He's really good –- _really_ good –- and several people stop and pause, enjoying the song. They're fairly evidently wondering if they could or should give some money, but are too awkward to ask, or just put it down on the ground in front of the guy. And –- barring the bearded, handsome young hipster who's clearly considering it, until Harry gives him a _look_ –- not flirtatious enough to stick it in his jeans pocket, instead.

Harry enjoys the music, too, although he feels inarguably awkward about it. He stands there in the cold from the open entrance, until the song ends, and meets the fiddle-player's glances, smiling and looking down quickly. He claps at the end, and he isn't the only one. That's definitely an awkward moment, though. He hesitates with his hand in his pocket, fingers playing over his wallet, wondering just how appropriate it would be to offer a few quid and stumble off. _Blushing_. He doesn't think that he could manage it with any kind of _sang froid._


	13. Chapter 13

And the chap must be clairvoyant, or telepathic, as well as an amazing musician. His pretty eyes follow the path of Harry's hand, and he laughs. “Keep your money, mate! That one was a freebie. Sometimes I just feel the spirit move me, and like to make people feel good with a little sing-song. To make the world a brighter place, does no harm, right? And I felt the spirit move me: I remember seeing you a couple of weeks back on that route, and you saved me from the bad vibes of the general public and a bad review, right? I figured I owed you a little musical appreciation.”

Which is very endearing, and they stand and smile at each other. But it's still awkward, because this fellow isn't actually going anywhere, just standing and smiling at Harry. And if he won't take money, then apart from a 'thank you' and a 'Merry Christmas to you!' then Harry's options are limited. He's hesitating, and wondering whether just to offer another 'thanks' and awkwardly shamble off.

But he doesn't have to, because the chap stands a little straighter, lets his hands holding violin and bow drop by his sides. And he says –- with a quick flicker of his pretty eyes to the station entrance, still busy -- “You could buy me a coffee, though. You know, if you felt like rewarding my musical efforts.”

He smiles up at Harry –- who has maybe two or three inches on him. It's a little cautious, and a little hopeful, and, yes, endearing. Oh, Harry maybe feels a _little_ bit dizzy. He's also weighed down with a million packages and bags, and it's really inconvenient, and uncomfortable, and _fuck_ it, anyhow. “Let's do that,” Harry says.


	14. Chapter 14

And the guy insists on taking over a couple of his bags, as they navigate the entrance and walk out into the milling Christmas crowds. Which is good of him, and only gives Harry the most momentary pause. (He doesn't really think so many bag-snatchers are musical, after all. It would be an awful lot of effort to go to, to pinch a few festive purchases, when he could just run through any shopping centre and go for the most laxly gripped handbag.) And along the way he discovers, with a bit of chit-chat, that the busker's name is Gary, but he usually goes by Eggsy –- which he has to spell for Harry's benefit. Also, that he has been busking for funds a bit lately, since his temporary building site contract ended, and that he's currently staying with a friend, who's somewhat local to Harry's Underground stop.

And in return, Harry offers up his own name. And that he's a teacher, that he's spent most of the afternoon looking for a present for his mother, who is a nightmare to buy for, and is liable to sniffily reject anything that doesn't conform to her continuously shifting standards, and... And then they're in front of the slightly shabby, but efficient and well-stocked, nice-staffed coffeeshop he'd had in mind.

But. The Tube station is also really convenient for his own flat. He isn't entirely sure what to do, he's in two minds. He stands and gazes at the menu stuck on the inner window, but he's mostly staring through it, and glancing off in the direction of the street that leads off to his own place. He has a feeling that Eggsy is being unnervingly telepathic about this as well: certainly, he doesn't comment on the menu stuck up in the window, or prompt him so that they actually make a move and get their arses comfortably seated inside, with steaming cups of java in front of them.


	15. Chapter 15

No, he gives Harry a minute, and Harry bottles it. It just seems like a _step_ , a bit of a commitment, to invite someone home that you've just met, and see where it leads.

Well, especially someone out of work, and busking on the streets, to be honest. Harry isn't a _snob_. He's just cautious, that's all.

But the coffee, they have the coffee. And Harry insists on paying for them. Because, as he says, “Hey, you do the music, I'll do the coffee. I feel as if I owe you.”

He still thinks he likes this chap, though, even though he's pretty much bottled it. Even though the sum-up of what he gleans, from a quarter of an hour's conversation, is that Eggsy dropped out of music school. “Well, the tuition fees –- you know how it is today. And I was sick in my second semester. Then I had this job in my second year where I thought it would fit in okay but I had to travel for it, and I missed some classes and tutorials which I thought would be okay but then I got thrown off a module, right, and...” He talks in one continuous stream, fluid, intense, gesturing. He drags Harry along with him. Harry's transfixed, to be honest.

It seems like an incredible waste of an incredible talent. Harry tries not to say that, because it probably wouldn't be tactful.

There's also the little nugget that he's not on good terms with his parents. That comes up when Harry asks if they didn't help with money, with intercessions with his tutors, with his being ill. Eggsy flinches a bit.


	16. all that surrounds him hastens to decay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Charlotte Brontë, 'Shirley'.

And Harry isn't imagining it. The proof is in the little awkward quietness that follows, Eggsy looking down at the battle-scarred formica table, and playing with his worn chrome teaspoon, tannin-stained. "Sorry," he stumbles, because clearly he's ruined this whole pleasant moment, barging in with intrusive questions. Cocked it up completely, boshed it up like the cretin his mother has always assured him she birthed, and--

"It's all right. Don't fuss yourself," Eggsy says. In a very measured way, like Harry's just trodden on the foot with the toe he broke last week, but on consideration it's not worth making a fuss about. And he looks up from his cup of tea, gazing at Harry like he's assessing him, summing him up. His eyes are very wide, very blue, starry, black-lashed. Harry feels as if he's being subjected to a rigorous test, held to an excruciatingly high standard, pass or fail. It seems he passes the test. Eggsy takes a moderate slurp of his tea, pushes his cap back on his head and links his fingers together, flat on the table. Harry has no idea what to expect, though its clear enough that something's coming. Certainly, he doesn't expect it to be, "My mum's a bloody idiot, ain't she?"

"Oh, I'm sure she's not," Harry ventures, after a moment.

Eggsy looks around the caff, restless as a hungry lion, and that pretty mouth pulled tight. It doesn't seem so much like he's angry with Harry - to Harry. But annoyed about something, certainly. Presumably his mum. "It's not that she's a bad person," he says after a moment. "She's all right. just not the sharpest tool in the box."

"She can't be as dim as all that," Harry says lightly. "Not if she produced a son like you." He longs for a cig suddenly, when he weaned himself off the blasted things more than a decade ago. It's the emotionally fraught atmosphere, of course, has to be. He was the same during the split with Gazelle. Or maybe it's just the ambience of the quiet little low-rent coffee bar, run on a shoe string with none of the pretensions of most modern coffee slingers. Like one of the little East End holes Harry spent his early youth slumming in, trying to get away from his gently reared origins. And this feels like a date - to him at least. Coffee and tense conversation, in a seedy caff with chewing gum stuck under the table edges, those are his associations with dating, inculcated long ago. And cigarettes burning like lamps, in full ashtrays. God, he's an old relic. Catch any London barista letting you get away with lighting up a fag anymore! They'd call the fuzz on you, like a shot. 

"Yeah, she used to be artistic," Eggsy agrees. "Spent a few months -- half a term -- at art school, even, before she got caught out with me and had to pack it in. I probably got a lot of things from her. I just hope to God that doesn't include her taste in men."

Well. That's the meat of it, Harry supposes. There's also a casually implicit admission in there, somewhere. "Stepfather issues?" Harry asks cautiously. Because that seems like the safest conclusion. 

"Well, I've had a lot of uncles anyhow," Eggsy says. He doesn't look anymore like the smiling carefree young fella who sparked Harry's interest. A little darker, perhaps. Not any the less attractive for it, mind you. A little sexier if anything.

"I wouldn't have minded that necessarily," Eggsy says, brooding a little. "Everyone needs a little company, right. She still had me to think about though, right? Not that you'd have thought so. My own dad, he ran off while I was just a toddler. And after that it seemed like any time some loser started making eyes at her, I was out of the picture. Like I didn't even exist. She's such an idiot: about men anyhow. And starting to take after her that way.... That's the thing I think I'm most afraid of in all the world."

It had been mid afternoon on the train, in mid-winter. And now it's a little later than that, and the bright lights of the caff are a little island in gathering dusk out the windows. Patrons sit mostly single or in pairs, quieted by shopping exhaustion. Harry is probably the only person sitting in here who's having a deep philosophical discussion with a near-stranger.


	17. you must learn the instrument as you go along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is E.M. Forster.

"You shouldn't give up on love, though," Harry says. Like a complete _sap_. Like he's aspiring to be hired writing the doggerel-lite crap out of Hallmark cards. But since he's let such guff escape his lips, he toughs it out and commits to it. "I mean, just because _she's_ made a mess of that side of life, it doesn't necessarily mean that you will. You could learn from her mistakes." That earns him a twisted little smile out of Eggsy, slightly bitter.

"Funny you should say that. As it turns out, maybe _I'm_ the one who could learn from _her_. All these years, one broke-arse woman-smacking loser after another –- but now, she's gone and got herself a keeper."

Right. Well, you'd think that was good news, right? Harry would have thought so, at least. Judging by Eggsy's expression, though, he isn't so sure of that. "Your new, er, uncle?" he ventures, immediately wincing at his choice of terminology. The lees of his coffee are bitter. But at least they spare him having to talk any further. 

Eggsy smiles at him again, except it isn't exactly _at_ him. And for that matter, it isn't exactly a smile. Is more of a twist of the lips that suggests a man in the dock, getting a custodial sentence for a dog-walking infraction. He's less _looking_ at Harry, than looking _through_ him.

"You'd think so, right?" he says, finally. But at least he focuses -- at least he's actually looking at Harry. Back _with_ him, not off in some private universe, alone. Harry can feel a _but_ swinging through space, like a pendulum ready to change direction and knock him silly. "Except she's doing it _right,_ this time," he says, firming up his lips. Decisive –- a man resigning himself to cold hard reality. "She's marrying the bugger –- the latest one. Being right straight with you, I can't decide if that makes it better or worse." 

Worse, Harry thinks, looking at him. Looking at Eggsy, it seems like definitely _worse_. "You don't like him?" he asks. 

Harry should have been home twenty minutes ago. He has a ton of Christmas wrapping to do, and he doesn't give a damn. 

"What difference does it make," Eggsy asks, gloomy, restless. "He's been on best behaviour with me so far, but aren't they all at first? It always turns out the same, reliable as clockwork. My old mum, she can't half pick 'em. Absolute bleedin' wtong 'uns _every single time_. It's like she's got some kind of _complete bastard_ radar, or sumfin. And now this one, she's planning on getting _hitched_ to him. Now, I thought there was no way she could make it bleeding _worse_ , and yet she's managed it."

Harry would have had to admit, on oath, this cockney tyke's sulky glower is very fetching. Well, more like miraculously bloody entrancing, to be perfectly honest. Eggsy clears his throat. "Of course we all know _why_ she been and gone and done it."

( _Mary Poppins_ , Harry thinks. _Strewth, Guv'nor._ )

Eggsy is kicking the edge of his violin case, where it's stashed down next to his chair. There's a contrast between his worn and weathered work-boot, and the cherished, carefully-polished patina of the -- admittedly rather elderly -- case, that is heartbreaking to Harry, even though he really knows so little about Eggsy. The case tells a tale. It's not new, but it's loved and cared for. It speaks of years of dogged practice and determination, of hope in the face of setback after setback, of a dearth of support and encouragement. Eggsy's violin case and instrument and bow have received his careful loving attention, for years now. And now, it's neglected, and he's absently kicking it with the toe of a grimy boot. It's a bit too symbolic to be comfortable.

Of course, there's the matter at hand, though. Rather than ironic juxtapositions of violin cases and work-boots. A _question has been begged._ Is Harry just going to let that thread go, without unraveling it? He's a teacher, for God's sake. He used to be a _scholar_ , for that matter. 

"And why is that?" he asks. 

Eggsy flicks a glance over at him, and there's a little roll of the eyes that goes with it. One moment, two, then he says, "Loaded, isn't he?" It's a little reluctant, and God knows it's succinct. Quite comprehensible, though. Harry doesn't quite know what to say. But he doesn't hurry to say anything. Maybe Eggsy has needed to unburden himself for a while now. 

"I suppose that's good," he says finally. Dubiously. Harry had a cushy start in life himself, but while not ungrateful, he wouldn't describe it as an unmixed blessing.

The barista stops by their table, and tops up their cups unasked. It isn't common practice in Blighty –- not unless you've seen one too many films about American diners –- and Harry rather thinks that it functions as a hint, that the place is emptying out and it's time for them to be thinking of moving on themselves, on this festive eve. Haven't they got anywhere else to be? 

Harry doesn't particularly want to be anywhere else, not at all. 

"I dunno," Eggsy says morosely. "If he _is_ a wrong 'un –- and going by the odds and past form, he almost _certainly_ is a wrong 'un –- maybe it just means she'll hang onto him, long past the time where she'd have normally kicked him out. If he hadn't already shagged her mate, and run off to Brighton to live over the brush in a caravan." 

"Does he seem like a wrong 'un so far?" Harry asks. He can't find any more delicate way to put it. 

"Hard to say," Eggsy says, wrinkling his brow like he's thinking about it. "I mean, he's been on best behaviour with _me_ , as well as her. But that don't mean nothing. It's early days, he's still mad keen on her, you know? All out to impress. And it's easy for him, considering his wad. Tried to buy his way into my good books, right? Almost straight out of the gate, when he got wind about my student loans, and not being able to scratch together my tuition fees, he was straight in there trying to play daddy, offering to sort it out for me, pay it off and make it all go away." Eggsy is bristling a bit at the memory. His nicely built chest is puffed up, and he bears a distinct resemblance to a favorite Buff Orpington hen that Harry used to have as a kid on the family farm. That bird, when it got angry or offended, used to puff itself up like a football, and squawk at you like mad. Sometimes it would cock its head to the side, and make a mad-eyed dash at you, barreling into your calves like it was bonkers. Good Lord, Eggsy and the mad old bird might be twins, in some ways.

"You didn't take him up on the offer?" Harry asks. But really, the answer is obvious. 

"Not bloody likely," Eggsy says. "He's not my dad, and he can't buy me. Nor my mum either, so I'd like to think. Except I'm not too sure of that."

"And how did _that_ go down," Harry asks. His refill is red-hot. He sips it with pleasure. If the sniffy little madam behind the counter was trying to get rid of them, then she's going the wrong way about it. 

"Well," Eggsy says. "I'm not saying he _liked_ it, but he didn't kick off. Mum, on the other hand…" Cue an epic brood. 

"She didn't like it?"

Eggsy sighs. "Well, she's all in his favour, ain't she? The posh bugger can do no wrong: not currently. Did I mention that he's a bit of a toff? I don't think that hurts, either. Sounds like he walked right out of Downton Abbey. Bit like you, eh?" He casts a glance Harry's way, quick and sly and shy.


End file.
